The 99th Platoon – Escape from Batula's Castle
(A/N Towards the end of this chapter, as I was writing at night, I
actually got scared. Because in my mind I could "see" it better, I even matched
horror-survivor music to it. Ugg. When you get to that part, which you will,
you'll recognise where a sudden *dun-dun-ding* should go. Actually not a 'dung'
more of a "Jaws-like" *bung-bung* Maybe it's just that I play waaaaaay too much
Eternal Darkness lately…)
Chapter 3: Look like the innocent flower…
"Okay ladies," began Sarge.
*WHAM*
"Ow! If we weren't related I swear I'd,"
*WHAM*
"If it wasn't for..."
*WHAM*
"Bloody hell cuz can you stop doing that?! I didn't mean anything." A slight
pause then...
*WHAM*
"Look can you not do that in front of the boys? I've got an image to keep up."
*Hug*
"Thank you. Hey what're you packin'?"
Dana showed the Platoon twin grenade launchers that seemed to appear as of
magic from some place beneath her garments. The launchers were packed in the
car with the rest of the small armoury that had developed in the trunk.
Pyst looked at Oreos. Oreos shrugged.
"What's your specialty ma'am?" Chael asked.
"I'm a mechanic – avionics sector."
"What's that?" CoolGuy asked.
"A pilot."
"Oh."
"Can we go and eat now?"
Sarge checked his watch. It was exactly 5 seconds to 12 o'clock, the
time they were supposed to come. He looked at the Platoon. They were all here.
5...he walked towards the brass handle hanging off of the door.
4...
3...he raised his hand to rap upon the wood.
2...
1...
He went to knock when precisely at that moment the gates swung wide open,
squeaking loudly on rusted hinges, hinges that had been left unused for ages
upon ages.
"Come on guys!" he yelled.
"Food time!" *WHAM!* "Shutting up..."
The second they had passed the gates a mysterious breeze blew them shut. Sarge
gulped and turned to look at the long, twisting path to the manor. He thought
of the awaiting meal and marched on...
It was after much huffing and puffing that the Platoon arrived at the manor.
From up close it looked even smaller but the height was plainly visible.
A thunderbolt cracked across the starry sky and thunder shook the house's
foundations. The door to the manor creaked open.
No one stood in the doorway. RedStorm ran ahead.
"Wow! Its bigger than it looks!" commented Red as the Platoon walked into the
house. The door slammed shut. Fingers twitched towards side arms and stopped,
hovering inches from their holsters.
Sarge motioned to a coat closet in the corner. They left their side arms inside
their jackets and their jackets in the closet.
"Ze Count shall see you now," spoke the butler that had closed the door. Sarge
moved towards him for a handshake.
"Hey there fella. You kinda snuck up on me there."
"I am very, very sneaky sir."
The butler turned without even looking at Sarge. Sarge scowled. He signalled to
the Platoon to follow the butler...
After what seemed quite a while, for such a small building, they arrived in the
banquet hall.
Portraits lined all four walls, portraits of aged people, dead long ago yet
kept alive in gilt-edged frames. Squeaky stared at a particular one that looked
strangely...alive. He stared at the life like eyes on the red squirrel. He
turned and shrugged his shoulders in time to miss the portrait blinking.
"Please iv you may take your zeats. Ze Count shall be vith you soon," said the
butler as he motioned to the long dining table. Strangely enough they found two
familiar faces at the dining table, the BigWig that ordered the Platoon around
and his fat wife.
Sarge twitched.
"Steady Sarge," murmured Oreos. They sat down at the table.
He came suddenly and without warning. One could almost say he appeared out of
thin air.
"Good evening."
Heads turned.
"I, am Count Batula. Velcome to my, humble abode."
The aged squirrel sat down at the head of the table. Squeaky and Pyst were
trying to stifle laughter at the host's weird hairstyle. The count continued.
"Yes. Yes. I finally meet the legendary Sergeant Major Rico "Sarge" Rodriguez
of the 99th Platoon. Hmm. Such a fine selection of warriors... reckless
youth... wise experience... channelled anger... mere coincidence... squirrel...
panthers... yes. Fine indeed. But let us leave such interesting tales to be
said later. Now, pray, let us eat." The Count clapped his hands and the butler
laid almost every food in the country in front of the Platoon.
"Perfect host all the way!" yelled a random soldier.
Sarge grabbed a chicken drumstick. He left the drumstick and took the rest of
the chicken. He proceeded to stuff his face with immense amounts of food. He
soon noticed that the Count wasn't eating at all.
"Umm...Count B, why aren't you eating?"
"I never eat before a good drink..."
"But there's no liquor on the table,"
"Yes," grinned the count, "Yes, not on the table."
Sarge shrugged and continued his meal.
Twisted had taken a seat next to the Count.
"Why don't you eat?" the Count queried.
"Not hungry," Twisted lied. He pushed his chair back and went to put his feet
on the table. Sarge nearly cleaved them off with a butter knife. Twisted got
the point and sat quietly. The butler arrived with a flagon of red wine
"Hey you got any beer?"
*WHAM*
"Shutting up."
Twisted fidgeted constantly in his seat. He stared at the drinks being served
to the guests. Then he stared hard at the Count's glass. He leaned over to
Stealth, who sat next to him.
"The Count's drink."
"What about it?"
"It's…different."
"How so?"
"It's a darker red than ours…"
Stealth's eyes narrowed. For a split second a dark thought that he had been
avoiding all night flashed through his mind. He put his mind to rest, thinking
that perhaps that film he had last seen was starting to get to him.
Twisted shook his head and drew a slice of pie towards him.
"So, here we are, eh Mr. Batula." FlatFeet was bored. Deja and Cherry were
involved in a conversation beyond FlatFeet's comprehension.
"Don't ever call me zat again."
"Whoa!...Touchy fella. Ok then, Count Batula, have you been here long?"
The Count considered the answer.
"About 300 years. Give or take a few."
"Wow. That's quite a long time, but it could be worse, right? I mean you could
live to be like a millennium years old! Don't know about you Count but I'd be
bored shitless."
"Hum...my great, great, great grandfather lived to be 1000, but he pazzed avay,
by a zilver ztake in ze heart. He did a lot of great thingz in hiz
life...heh..."
"Wow!! That's a lot of birthday presents...what kind of great things did he
do?"
"Vell, he brought down a tyrant, and he took over that tyrant, and he vaz a
king for a vhile, but ze villagerz revolted against him. Heh. Zhey vere not
zuccezzful...he...found another uze for them...heh, heh, heh..."
"Wow. Sounds like a cool guy, but too bad about him dying though. But I guess
you can just say shit happens. Right County?"
The Count shook his head.
"Hey, did anyone see the movie Resident Evil yet? That movie was AWESOME!!!"
Pyst attempted to get a conversation rolling. The BigWig stared at him.
"I like that one part where they're unloading like crazy at the oncoming
zombies with automatic weapons." Pyst extended his thumb, index and middle
fingers while tucking in his ring and pinkie finger, hence forming "guns".
"I would've been all like 'DIE FLESH EATING SUCKAS' and start blowing their
brains out one by one-"
A chicken bone thrown with expertise from Sarge hit Pyst on the head. He sat
down mumbling.
Mon was not eating. His pork chop was fine but as he was about to take a bite
out of it he swore that he saw it crawling with maggots. He hastily put it down
again. Strange. He stared at the wine. It appeared to change from transparent
purple to thick, opaque red.
Weird.
Every one else seemed to be heartily enjoying their feed. Something was
exceedingly strange about the Count.
He seemed to be looking at ILZ's neck in the same way that the Platoon eyed the
last slice of pizza in the box. His butler did not seem to differ.
Dark was looking extremely agitated and edgy. Mon had heard rumours of the
mysterious recruit. Some called him a vampire hunter. Mon snorted.
"What is this?" he thought, "A comic book?" He laughed silently to himself.
When he looked up again his eyes locked in with Dark's violet irises.
Suddenly he jerked back.
He had suddenly 'seen' a scene in his mind, against his will. 'Showed'. Mon
swallowed hard. His hand crept ever so slowly across the table towards the
carving knife in the turkey. He swiftly drew it under the table and made sure.
Yes. The blade was silver edged.
Chael belched long and hard.
"Yo Count! Where's the bathroom in this place?"
"That way. Left, right, third left, straight to the fourth door, up the stairs,
down the next and it's the 6th door on your right hand side."
Chael folded his legs tightly. He needed "relief" and he needed it fast. It was
perhaps the third attempt to find the lavatory but he seemed to continuously
end up in the same room. He dashed down a corridor.
"Third ri- no left then up the stairs and then take the fourth stair down…Arg!
I can't take it any longer!" He moaned. He kicked down the next door he saw.
Yes! Jackpot!
Upon completing his business he went to the sink to wash his hands. He turned
the tap, while he took his glasses off. He stared at his reflection in the
mirror and at his pale pink eyes. The water was warm on his skin. He decided to
give his face a bit of a scrub while he was at it. He brought his hands to his
face. His hands covered his entire face and he scrubbed vigorously. He drew
them away and screamed.
Bloody handprints stained his face. He continued screaming. It dripped off his
hands, off his fingertips and into the crimson-died sink. The tap was still
gushing forth blood. Chael's hands quivered violently. He stared open mouthed
at his reflection. His normally white fur was red everywhere where his hands
had passed.
He thought he was scared.
He didn't know half of it.
Having slowed his beating heart he gapped at the bloody figure in the mirror. Chael
exhaled slowly. He lifted his hand to reach for his glasses.
The reflection did not.
